NOVA

And when our eyes we strayed upon the night;

A mark of bearing beastly- espied in constellation-

Drew sign of a star sputtered with false light:

Our breasts, rattling, quivered with consternation,

For was this star not our own? She was in nova!

The land of forgotten dreams

I saw a little girl today-

about 3 years old.

She was bright and sunny,

laughed and cackled,

And asked lots of questions;

they were funny.

I met a little boy today-

about 10 years old.

He was broody and moody,

curious as a policeman

And studied me a lot;

he was funny.

She might grow into

a doctor or nurse.

He might grow into

an engineer or mechanic.

Two lives young-

and unstained still.

Eyes white with innocence,

pupils black with possibility.

Will they too join

our long and listless marching?

Will they too grow

and forget how to dream?

A Letter to a Black Brother

Blackness, my brother, is not a fact of trite science-

It is more than a pigment of skin. It is a way of life!

It is a cloak of an infinite state worn by our kind-

Born of a tragic tradition of systemic denigration,

By centuries of living on the wrong side of history

But I am black. And I am proud.

Blackness, you say is no more than a charred hue-

An aftermath of birth beneath a burning sun

A shield sewn to skin by Sol’s furious flames 

Alas you can be no more wrong!

Blackness you tell me, is not a battle scar

That I should wear like a badge of gallant valor,

To flaunt in people’s faces like a warrior’s spear.

Black consciousness, you hold, is an empty spin

A wanton ideal to nourish shadowy wannabes

A wand to cast fashionable illusions of intellect

A respite for famished consciences-

Far from it, black pride is about consciousness …

Blackness is a heritage

A legacy of resilience in the face of adversity

It is a heroic story of a people’s stoic buoyancy

Of a people cast in a sea of endless tempest

Who learnt to make juice of life’s lemons.

It is a story of a proud people-

Who took the harsh whips of slave drivers,

And sang hearty songs that soothed the soul.

A people who took the horrors of colonial occupation

And made proud nations- measure for measure.

Nay, my pride’s not born of solidarity with lost children.

My consciousness is neither gifted by fevered books

Nor some play of social script on trendy conversation;

I wear my blackness with pride,

Because amid the falling bombs and landmines

Our gentle smiles still light the sky every waking sun.

Because amid failing states and treacherous leaders,

Relegated to subsist at the bottom of the food chain;

We still find a reason to dance and make merry.

I am proud of being black

Because blackness is strength-

A sturdy mark of endurance!

My blackness is not a state,

To explain away with science-

It is a presence of mind.

It is a symbol of love-

Of triumph amid torment

Of poverty spiting passion

Of shining sun on rainy day-

I am black and I am proud-

Because blackness, is our way of life!

©2011

Elegy

        I remember my wife in white

That sudden Sunday morning,

When the sun crushed down

And the skies turned black

The dog fretted unceasing

And the kittens sauntered uneasing

I remember my wife in

In silky milky white.

That sudden Sunday morning

When white rose fell to the ground,

And the soils turned to hard stone.

I remember my wife in white

That sudden Sunday morning,

When the sun crushed down,

And the skies turned black

© 2007

Crescent Moon

A crescent moon sits atop an empty night
A barren land glowers a dancing night
Unto they that have sight
The gift of guilt is bestowed
Unto they of sightless plight
The curse of bliss is restowed

I would lay me a mat upon the desert sands

If I could live to see a thousand suns
I’d lay me down this laboured countenance
And journey the tempest waves of the high seas

I would lay me a mat upon the desert sands
Where the night’s speckled crown
Is not blush with the noise of city lights.
I would pitch tent under the northern skies
And wet my beak with their colourful nights
Where the gods are said to show off their painting.
I would moon dance with the southern tribes,
Swim across the majestic Congo,
And build me a cabin atop Rwenzori’s quiet crest
Where I would watch my last sun go to sleep.

I’d live amongst the stars and the winds
A journeyman; with my home at my feet
And my heart in my head-
But I’m old with the youngness of youth.
A desolate monk;
Trapped in the service of a faceless master
Whose empty voice lives inside my head.
I wish I were a butterfly
But I am stooped with the oldness of youth-
Cloaked in these earthy robes,
Of denim and leather.

© Kordasis 2010

The Promised Land

Counting the days to Promised Land
I stand upon a lofty mound bedeviled.
My staff albeit whispered ordained
Hits hard the rock beneath my feet,
Alas, the waters do not part.

Silently over my hour of trial
A cloudless sky of genteel gait glides-
I wonder if it mocks me

Countless faces affixed my back
Beads of sweat begin to wet my beard
Their petulant despair is my task to quell,
But I am heavy with the dread of deceit
A lie that descended upon my bed
In the high of a silent night
And raked my ravenous dreams
With visions of a Promised land

Alas upon this rock I stand
Afaced by tempest water of raging voice
And I, staff in hand
Haplessly peek at the clear blue sky
With salty beads of sweat
Trickling down my graying beard.

If I lift this staff this last time
Will the raging waters part?

©Kordasis 2010